Of Kings and Demons (5 page)

Maganus winced. “They came
prepared.”

“My instincts were correct then,”
Gwyneth said.

Maganus said as stroked his
beard. “A fight is imminent.”

They threw their glance to the
horizon and kept a brooding silence.

In the depths of the nature
reserves, the near full moon draped a cloak of pallid tranquility over the terrain.
From the unseen excess, a ripple of force, an oppressive presence resonated
through the atmosphere, followed by a strong gale, which sent the woods into a
mad sway for several minutes.

The birds awoke and disturbed
animals cried out. Lightning shot through the darkness and a portal opened up
in the midst of the pitch black. Tongues of fire licked outward in all
directions, and a figure materialized at the rim of the portal.

The domineering figure donned a
smart suit of black and red, and his broad shoulders lent a commanding and
intimidating presence. He was every bit the cocky banker who had stepped into
the wrong environment.

His first step carried such enormous
power that it rolled down a carpet of dark burning vibes which scorched the
surrounding grasses and laid waste to all life forms.

The gale died down
and s
ilence resumed.

He surveyed the spot around
him. He sniffed and tried to pick the ambience of the lands. It was the spot.
He could smell the history of the place. Despite the thick forests, he could
tell the site used to be the center of an ancient but extinct civilization
whose people were cruel and dark in their disposition.

Beneath the serenity, the lands
were damned, ideal for him to raise his bastion of darkness—Castle Valmar.

Lord Barbatos, Duke of Demons,
Commander of thirty legions of Demons, master conjurer of the human mind, stood
at the brink of a bold enterprise that was designed to wrestle total control of
the human civilization. As he surveyed his new domain in quiet satisfaction, a familiar
flapping of winds, and the accompanying vibes of darkness, drew his attention.

A winged creature descended and
landed with a heavy thump. The wings folded and the gigantic frame knelt in
front of him. In a low drone, the creature whispered in servitude, “Master.”

“Eberhard, do you bring good
tidings?”

“Master, you sense it?” The
gargoyle was in full glee, his tusks glimmering with bloodlust.

“Yes, I sensed that.”

“The mission has been
completed.”

“Excellent, my friend!”

“Master, I broke his chest.”

Barbatos circled the beast and
smirked.

“Good, Eberhard. Your act will
alert the Angels. Shock and panic will spread. With the human race under
threat, the Angels will respond.” He spoke in an authoritative voice as Eberhard
remained on his knees.

The gargoyle, huge like a bull,
stretching to two metres at full height, did not move, like an obedient pet.
Armed with powerful limbs, razor-sharp claws and teeth, and indestructible iron
body, Eberhard was a killing machine with a reputation that pierced the hearts
of many in the arenas of Heaven and Hell.

Raised from the dead souls of
evil warriors who were steeped in the darkest of cultures, Eberhard was the
epitome of dark power, immoral, and ruthless. He was gifted with the powers to
crush a speeding locomotive or demolish a skyscraper but in front of Lord
Barbatos, he was a meek lamb.

There was a long pause before
Lord Barbatos spoke. “Rise,” He’d deliberately made Eberhard waited. He enjoyed
the sadistic satisfaction of manipulating these lesser beings who that craved
his approval like fishes for water.

“Master,” the gigantic gargoyle
snorted, his head lowered - an unbecoming pose for a fearsome demon.

Barbatos pointed to his environment.
“My fear, this piece of forestry is alien and dark; and those humans spent
millions to preserve these woods?”

He raised his right arm and, in
a suave twist of his wrist, summoned ominous clouds over him. The moon was
blocked out and the cacophony of insect noises went silent. Then the trees in
the perimeters withered and died away. Dark and willowy trees rose to take the
place of the thick greenery.

“Master,” the gargoyle said.

Barbatos roared. “Witness my
creation, Eberhard!” He swung around and raised his arms over his head with
grace and ease. “
Atrum vox orior oriri ortus!
Rise, Rise, Dark Power!”

A tremor shook the ground as
the earth was torn asunder as if it were paper. All proper forms of life, trees
and birds of sorts, crumbled away as if the earth had chewed them up. As the
dark essence rippled across the natural habitat, all living beings melted away
in the midst of a cacophony of cries and shrills.

A web of cracks ate into the
ground and from recesses spewed armies of spiders, insects, and snakes.

The phenomenon had Eberhard’s
jaws agape. “Master …” he was amazed like a child.

Barbatos continued to chant in
intensive tones. The power of his voice resonated through the woods like seas
of dark energy.

Then the ground behind them, by
the valley, broke like crumbled clay. Gradually a structure broke through, like
a monster struggling to be born. It rose in dramatic motion until a
four-towered castle stood like an awkward giant, totally out of sync with the
surroundings.

“It’s Valmar.”

“Yes, Valmar, our prized castle
and our key holding position.”

“Master, you brought your armies
from hell?”

Barbatos nodded.

“I beg your pardon for my
ignorance, Master, but armies from hell?” Eberhard snorted his query.

Barbatos nodded. “I could not
bring the legions. My powers are limited and the Guardian Angels are still
guarding the borders of human civilization. However I have three legions which
will support my efforts.

“A new war on humanity!” the
beast repeated.

“Yes. This time we are here to
stay. No longer will we be involved in isolated skirmishes and lived in
sickening deference to soldiers of heaven. The time has come to for us to renew
our war with our Angel friends and claim the victory that should be ours. ”

“A new battle?” Eberhard’s
bulb-like eyes lit up in flames as a wicked grin drew across his face.

“Don’t you long for this
moment?” Barbatos teased as the beast grunted his approval. “This is a plan
that will take years for fruition, Eberhard. However, the first step has been
taken and our scheme is unfolding beautifully.”

“Do we need more legions for
this war?”

Barbatos shook his head in
irritation. “No, no, Eberhard. I had not elaborated but this is not just a war.
The legions I used served the purpose of a red herring. A distraction.”

“Distraction?

Barbatos nodded and wagged a
pedantic finger. “Watch me, my friend.” Barbatos patted Eberhard on his
shoulder. “I shall show you a magnificent victory, the hatching of a major
scheme that will allow us to tighten our control of the human civilization.”

“Yes, Master.” Eberhard’s glee
came with lusting mucus dripping to the grounds.

“The time has to come for us to
claim dominance of the realm of Earth. This is our domain. The tug of war
between the Angels and us must come to a conclusive end. It is time once again to
bring these humans to their knees and herald an era of absolute domination.”

“Master …” Eberhard salivated
with bloodlust.

“Welcome to our castle,
the
frontline position in the battle against mankind; the decisive battle against
the Angels,” Barbatos pronounced as his eyes ignited into fires of deep maroon.

BC 80, Southwest England

Snow had always been special to
her. It had a peculiar effect on her vibes. Like the winter that freezes the
lake, the wintery chill turned her into a glacier. Her verve and warmth
hibernated once the snow arrived. In place of the vibrancy, an inexplicable
calm that gave her the clarity of mind and a sense of lightness that goes beyond
words. In sync with the snow and rhythm of nature, Gwyneth felt she was part of
the greater wintery climate.

She was born and raised as
Gwyneth Vitulus, the eldest of five children and only daughter of the chief of
a local Celtic tribe, Cathaor, a heavily bearded man. The Chieftain was nearing
sixty and renowned in the lands for his benevolence and tolerance. Her four
brothers, aged eighteen to four, were handsome and well-built, gifted with
their family’s blue eyes and fair complexion.

The tribe dwelt at a plain near
the head of the Thames River of what is today Cheltenham. The Romans were still
decades away from conquering the British Isles. Pockets of Celtic clans resided
along the green hills and the banks of River Thames.

Gwyneth was twenty years of
age, seven days short of her twenty-first year, which was recorded to be the
tenth day of the tenth lunar month on the ancient Celtic calendar. It was
planned, as instructed by her father, that her birthday would be an occasion
for celebration. All members of the tribe, all ladies born the same day would also
participate in the celebration. Her mother, Cerdwin, has been keen to find a
man for her daughter. Men of eligible pedigree, age, and looks were invited to
the event.

It was a day planned to be
memorable and it was a day eventually to be remembered, though for very
different reasons.

Her father and his hunting
entourage was ambushed and killed by the invading hordes from the north. As
they neared, her unprepared tribe scrambled to put together resistance.

The ruling council convened and
deliberated. It was finally agreed for the strong to fight and buy time for the
weak, infirm, and children.

The leader of the council, Maganus
volunteered to lead the men. Maganus was the wise man, but had none of the haughtiness
of seniority. Instead he was hale, and good humor was his complexion. Red-bearded,
he had rosy cheeks and a smoking pipe always at hand. Highly regarded in the
clans, his words were sought after and the opinion valued.

Finally the council sanctioned
the option and Gwyneth stood to speak.

“I beg to differ.” She said. “Maganus
is like an uncle to me. He once saved me when I had to fight off some wolves in
the woods. I have just lost my father, and his corpse was not recovered. The
burden of vengeance cannot fall on the shoulder of another man I hold so dear.

“We’ve had enough deaths
already,” she concluded.

Murmurs followed as Maganus lit
his pipe and inhaled. Leaning against a table, he made loops of smoke with a
naught twitch or pout of his lips. The murmurs stopped.

 “Fighting is in my blood,
Gwyneth. I cannot leave. I will stand tall and avenge your father.” Maganus
differed, ever so gracefully.

“Cathaor is
my father. It is my duty to avenge him, not you.”
“Cathaor is your father, but he is like brother to me. No man leaves his
friends to die.” Maganus took another puff and continued. “I cannot comply. We
rule by consensus in the absence of a leader. I have been chosen for the task.”

“Then as the daughter of your
leader, I say I stand next to you.”

Gwyneth’s words of faith swayed
the elders and cast the decision in iron. She had their support.

Gwyneth felt electrified by the
newly entrusted leadership and took her place in front of the congregation.

“My first
order is that the elders will lead the women, children, and the sick to

withdraw through the valley towards the
western lands where allied tribes are camped. I shall lead the defence. We will
hold the line. Our efforts will buy time for the withdrawal.

After she had finished her
sentence, Maganus stepped forward and bowed. “I do not forsake friends, much
less the daughter of a man I called brother.”

Gwyneth replied. “I wish you had
left but your decision is my good fortune. We need you.”

A hundred of the strongest were
quickly chosen. The weaponry was distributed—-spears, shields, and short
swords. But the Vitulus tribe had never been a warring entity. They were
content with hunting, cattle rearing, and light farming.

Gwyneth bade her mother
farewell. Tears formed at the rim of her eyes, but she feigned a calm exterior.
As the de facto head of the tribe, expressions of sorrow were forbidden.

The snow had halted and it
helped the retreat. After the remnants of the withdrawing party had disappeared
over the horizon, those that remained prepared for war.

As Gwyneth put on her father’s armour,
the polished chest plate with a handsome wolf engraved on it, a sense of
gravity grew upon her. Her father’s words resonated in her ears.

“Sacrifice is the badge of our
tribe, the foundation of our continuity.”

These words of courage, the
only buoyant for her sinking nerves as she faced the first battle of her life. Gwyneth
had never killed a soul, how will she now stop the enemies to save her tribe? In
her tent, Gwyneth sank to her knees and prayed those in high above, to those in
the mountain, and to whoever that will listen.

“Hear me, hear a girl speak. A
girl who has lost her father, and am someone who will soon lose her family and
tribe, I ask of your blessing. I wish to see none of my loved ones, the small ones
die. Pray, let it be me. I will do anything in exchange for their safety.”

Calm returned, fringe noises in
her mind ceased, and she felt warmth in her chest. Gwyneth felt she had been
touched by someone divine. She said her thanks and  picked herself up for the
ultimate.

She chose a spear from his
father’s collection. Maganus joined her with his pair of battleaxes, which teethed
with chips, along the cutting edge, that spoke of many battles fought and won. He
wore his courage and defiance in his bulbous nose, stout chin, and red plaited beard,
pose of a warrior.

They lined themselves at the
path leading to the village. The snow returned soon, in heavy fall.

“Maybe the snow will slow those
bastards,” Maganus muttered.

The enemy’s arrival at dawn
proved Maganus wrong. A single horseman over the far horizon soon gave way to
tens and soon hundreds of silhouettes.

The light of dawn provided
Gwyneth a glimpse into their intimidating armoury, spikes, and shields. Their
horses were armoured, too, and she had never seen such ugliness in the
beautiful beasts. These invaders came prepared for looting, murder, and
destruction.

Gwyneth could imagine the final
moments of her father and his clansmen, the fierce battles, sword fights, the
whizzing of the flying arrows and soaring spears. She lowered her head and said
a prayer for the deceased.

She had heard of the invasion
of monsters from the seas—men of axes and spears who had children for breakfast
and slept on beds made from bones of their victims. She had assumed, when she
was older, they were just tales invented to send children to bed early. How wrong
she had been!

A whistling
in the air broke her thought. An arrow plunged into the chest of a sent a warrior,
just five yards away and the spectacle hit home. Maganus raised a war cry and the
battle commenced.

In unison, her men lifted their
shields over their heads to form a protective umbrella but the rain of arrows
proved too heavy as many fell. Without hesitation, Gwyneth led her men into war.
It was mayhem. Limbs flew, blood spurted, and she found herself taking one
after another of her enemies.

Gwyneth brought down a horseman,
then another, but there were too many of them. She was soon hit, an arrow had
found her right knee. As blood and her life leaked away, she found Maganus. His
shield was stained with blood and his beard soaked with blood, his and his
opponents. She witnessed his fall and his body was soon surrounded by the
enemies as they thrust their spears into his torso.

Gwyneth’s cries erupted in the
air and her last memory was an unbearable pain in her chest.

Gwyneth woke into brightness,
surprised to find her wounds completely healed. The bleeding had ceased and her
armoury had vanished. Dressed in robes of white, her hair was tightly plaited
like it had always been. She felt coolness on her back and she discovered she was
lying on a marble table. Snow lay all around her, as if it were winter.

Then Gwyneth realized something
strange—her heartbeat. She had none. Startled, she jumped off the marble table.
She was dead. She had been dead?

The answer that she craved
arrived soon after. She saw two man, dressed in robes of white and gold,
walking towards her. The taller of the pair was statuesque. His face was one of
the most flawless she had ever seen; it had a strong jaw and a high-bridged
nose. The eyebrows were intensely white and bushy, and the eyes were a captivating
blue, gentle and kind.

No words were exchanged and then
she noticed that next to him stood the familiar figure of Maganus. He, too, wore
fresh garments. In place of the blood-stained armour, he was dressed in a brown
overcoat. He had his staff and serenity lay on his cheeks.

They embraced.

“Gwyneth, they found you,
buried in snow with your blood staining the ground around you.”

Gwyneth was startled. “I am
dead then?”

Maganus turned to the man next
to him. “Our friends saved our souls,” he whispered.

Instantly, wings sprouted from
the man’s back and expanded to full length. He nodded and in a firm voice,
spoke. “I am Alastair. I am the Guardian Angel for the Western Regions.”

“
Guardian Angels
?”

“Yes. I heard your prayers. The
Archangel raised you from death for your courage and the immense sacrifice.
Your death has not been in vain. Your family is safe and so are your brothers.
I hope that soothed the pain in your limbs and heart.”

Gwyneth turned to Maganus, who
nodded in confirmation. She smiled for the first time that day.

Alastair continued in a
soothing voice. “As a reward for your sacrifice, you are offered a new life, a
lease of Immortality in exchange for a life in defense of noble individuals and
the hope of mankind. Join us. Join the army of brave warriors of God, the
Guardian Angels.”

Gwyneth turned to Maganus for
guidance but he was deep in deliberation.

“Gwyneth, Maganus, since time
immemorial, we have been defending mankind, ignorant masses from the temptation
of the Devil and his armies of Demons. Civilization and evolution of the human
race is at stake. An unruly mob of Vikings turned up, proxies of the Demons,
armies of hell, and ravaged your homes and nearly destroyed your civilization.
Your tribe was fortunate to survive. But there are many who were less
fortunate. The men were killed, the process of learning halted, the children,
the future of mankind buried. Stop the forces of the dark.”

Gwyneth felt a stream of warmth
course through her veins as she thought about her new mandate. Gwyneth and Maganus
then stood forth and grasped the extended hands of Alastair. And so, they were
each handed the mandate, Maganus became the guardian of the forests, the woods
and its residents. Named the Friend of the Woods for his lifelong affinity with
animals and his success in raising new crops which fed and grew his tribe,
Maganus shouldered his new responsibility with vigor. Gwyneth, young and beautiful
when she died was blessed with the prowess over the snow and given the title of
Commander of the Snow. She was also appointed the Guardian Angel of young
children.

And hence a new destiny began
for Gwyneth and Maganus, a new mission – the defense of human civilization,
warrior-soldiers of God.

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